


Just Your Skin

by spinel



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Gigolas Week, M/M, Talking During Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-21
Updated: 2014-02-21
Packaged: 2018-01-13 05:38:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1214734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinel/pseuds/spinel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are many ways to announce an Elvish wedding. Unbeknownst to Gimli, this is not the best one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Your Skin

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Day 4 of [Gigolas Week](http://gigolasweek.tumblr.com/), with the prompt Meeting the Family'. A prompt which I, _again_ , shamefully adapted to write smut.
> 
> Very much inspired by the Katy B song 'Sapphire Blue', which is a quintessential Gimli/Legolas song.

"You were worried, meleth," Legolas teases, almost silent. Their finery is ruined, Legolas' shimmering tunic muddied and torn at the shoulder, where he ripped it himself to better use the bow of Galadriel. They are trudging back through to the gates leading into the Royal Halls of Eryn Lasgalen, breathless and disheveled, both their sets of braids in disarray.

"Who wouldn't be?" Gimli grouses, idly twirling his throwing axe to try and relax his arms and back. The remains of his heavily embroidered jacket are hanging, useless, about his thickly muscled torso, pale and inked skin alternatively peeking out in between the rich tatters as he walks. "You have met your father, kurdûh." He wipes the edge of his larger axe against his thigh, then curses as it snags the matted velvet. "Useless clothing," he mutters. "I cannot believe they cost as much as I paid for them! And no way to get the blood properly off this weapon now."

"You didn't pay for them," Legolas feels the need to point out, carefully edging away from within axe distance. "Your sister made them with her own hands."

"Aye, and I had to _sit_ there and let her poke me! And then agree to her extortionate terms!" Gimli says, frustrated, before deflating visibly. "Ach, lad. I apologise. But it was difficult standing before Thranduil King and holding my tongue on the subject of warfare, then being called out against spiders and having to hold my blows!"

"Only until you hacked off your tunic." Gimli can hear a tinge of regret colouring Legolas' voice. "After that, I dare say none here, save for myself, have seen axes wielded with such skill."

"And they were throwing axes only!" Gimli puffs up his chest and they can both hear a sharp _rip!_ as a lone sleeve, precariously hanging on Gimli's thick shoulder, cracks along its seam. Gimli glowers but Legolas can only dissolve into laughter, leaning against Gimli's side, heedless of the remaining axe around Gimli's belt.

"Come, Gimli," Legolas is still chortling as he pulls them towards his own quarters. "I would not subject your chest to more Elvish stares!" He says it loudly enough that he can hear sure-footed scampering further away, and grimly smiles. Things are tense in Eryn Lasgalen since he has returned with a Dwarf -his heart!- in tow. His father's love of spider reports can wait.

"I'm sure you wouldn't," grumbles Gimli. He is taking the stares and whispers rather well, all things considered. They have only arrived yesterday, amidst worrying news of remaining pockets of evil in the Greenwood, spider nests that have yet to be cleaned out and are springing anew, for the forces of the Elvenking are greatly diminished in number after the Battle under Trees and those who remain cannot be in multiple places at once.

They have witnessed the crowning of King Elessar and his wedding to Arwen Peredhel, have feasted and danced in the White City, but home has been calling. For both of them, with Gimli's yearning for Erebor exacerbated by the arrival of Balh, Gimli's sister. Gimli's sister! Legolas cannot recall their interactions without a sound flushing of his ears. For she is the one who had journeyed from a besieged and ravaged Lonely Mountain yet mourning both the King under it and the one at its feet to Minas Tirith. With only a chest and the company of Elves found on the road, she had gone for news of her brother, carrying the recognition and best wishes of the new King under the Mountain to his counterpart in Minas Tirith. 

Legolas has now been schooled in the existence of female Dwarves ( _'Dwarrowdam, Master Elf. That is what I am'_ ) and their skills in both weapons and braiding. For Balh had not waited to be awarded leave by King Elessar to embrace her brother and soundly trounce him for gallivanting on a quest, beard half-braided and hair not combed! She is the one who had patiently sat by Gimli in their shared quarters, mourning their lost kin of Khazad-dûm with the proper rites as Legolas could just watch. She is the one who had sewn Gimli's sapphire blue jacket and silently embroidered it with silver thread after seeing Legolas' own formal robes hanging by his bed. She is the one who had stared long and hard at Legolas when they were first introduced, her face blank and considering, before clasping his arm firmly and settling in to hear of their adventures. She is the one who had taken out a small wooden box from her travelling chest after seeing Gimli and him together, thrust it to her brother and muttered in Khuzdul, asking Legolas for a sparring session as Gimli sputtered incoherently and turned the same colour as his hair. She had beaten him black and blue the next morning, his Elvish fleetness no match for her Dwarvish strength, and finished their session with, "You'll fit in just fine, khathuzhîth!".

Legolas can thank her for the beads he now sports in his hair, for that is what she had wistfully carried with her from Erebor with the crushed blue velvet of Durin's folk, tokens of hope and home if Gimli lived, ones she would go forth and bury if he didn't.

"I see your face is flushed, love," Gimli teases, his voice low. "Is it my chest again?"

Legolas whirls and drop to his knees, embracing Gimli tightly, heedless of the _oof!_ the Dwarf lets out as he is driven into the dark, waxed wood of the heavy door marking Legolas' quarters. "I would have no one see it," he mumbles, his face in the crook between neck and shoulder, his nose inhaling the sharp tang of sweat at the base of Gimli's neck.

"Not quite Elf-like, is it?" Gimli says, wistful. His hands sit at Legolas' hips. Were he to stretch his fingers all around, they would neatly encircle his waist. 

Legolas snorts and pushes at Gimli's shoulders, ineffectual until Gimli deigns leaning back. "Stupid Dwarf," he hisses, his eyes slitted as they sweep over Gimli's frame. "It's because it's mine." His hands tremble as he pushes and pulls at the remains of Gimli's tunic, clearing the shreds of velvet from the burly frame, fingers lingering over the designs etched there, nails scratching lightly through the sparse russet hair in between the thick pectorals, hair that grows softer and thicker in a line leading into Gimli's trousers. There is a faint sound somewhere on the other side of the door, but he ignores it. "Mine," he repeats, breathless, fingers tightening on Gimli's hips, nuzzling at the red hair at his temple, the scratch of hair a now known but as of yet unusual thrill.

Large hands cradle his skull as if it is something precious, tilt it gently so that their lips meet. "Possessive, Master Elf," Gimli murmurs against his lips. "How very Dwarvish of you."

Fingers that can crush stone card through his hair, run along the edge of his ears and he can only pant, dazed and delirious. "Gimli, melethron nín, cuil nín," he heaves, lips a scant distance form that adored mouth, "I would have us take pleasure in each other, I would have you kiss me and curse for me and-"

His voice is muffled by Gimli's tongue finding its way into his mouth and strong arms crushing him into his broad and heated frame. "By Mahal, Legolas," Gimli groans when they find breath to be necessary, "do you not know the value of silence in these moments?" 

"Should I? But I would tell you what you do to my body, the fire you awaken in me, all the ways I would kiss--" Legolas gasps, train of thought lost as Gimli's hand reaches between his legs, right into his unlaced leggings, and grasps at his hardened flesh. His hands fist into the luxurious beard within reach, hips swaying as he tugs, trying to get Gimli's lips closer to his once more. "Ai, Gimli, _Gimli_ ," he inhales sharply but his next words are lost, for Gimli's fingers have tightened around him, a hot and narrow sheath that causes him to cry out higher-pitched cries to a quick completion.

Legolas then sags against Gimli's shoulder, panting and replete, and peppers the hairy cheek with soft kisses. "Must you always see to me first, my love," he hums, prosaic. "We will have to work on that. But for now, I would touch you."

"You'd do me a favour if ye did," Gimli grunts, his accent thick, hands now tight on Legolas' hips and sweat beading at his temple. Legolas mouths at it as he slips his hand along the hair down Gimli's chiseled stomach, following the bright trail to the heat he seeks. There is a more insistent noise originating from somewhere, but he dismisses it as inconsequential. He has learned that Gimli is silent in pleasure but for the cadence of his breaths; that his palm is not wide enough to cover the entirety of Gimli's impressive length but that he can manage the girth of it; and that there are few things that hasten his him towards satiation quicker than Legolas himself.

"I was telling you of all the ways I would kiss you," Legolas whispers into Gimli's ear, his hand jerking Gimli's hardened flesh at a rapid pace. "How I would kiss all of you," he continues, relishing Gimli's loud pants and the tight arms that have migrated from his hips and are now squeezing his shoulders. "How I would touch all of you, your strong feet, your fingers, your shoulders, and all the places you have no desire for me to name. That I would put my mouth on every inch of your skin, would cherish it with my kisses--" But the rest is stifled by Gimli's lips in an open-mouthed kiss, by Gimli's fingers tight at the base of his skull, and by Gimli's release all over his hand.

"Your mouth is a menace," Gimli heaves, loud breaths resonating in the cavernous quarters. Legolas smiles, small and secret, and brings his soiled hand up to his lips. The sound Gimli's head makes as it bangs against the door when Legolas licks one fingertip clean is even louder. 

They are yet kissing when a very insistent knock jars them back into the moment. "My lords?" A quivering voice can be heard on the other side of the great oak door. "My lords, we have been waiting outside your door for some time."

"Elves have been _waiting_? Right outside?" Gimli squawks in distress, blushing madly, and tears himself away from the door as if it were diseased, Legolas still tucked against him.

"My Lord Thranduil requires an attendance and he should not like to wait," the voice continues, with a slight edge of panic.

"Legolas," Gimli hisses, hands tightening around Legolas' lax and narrow shoulders, eyes narrowing at the smugness on the beloved, sated face. "I am going to _kill_ you."

 

-  
 _Balh - 'to bind' in Khuzdul._


End file.
